


The Shiral Connection

by Zophiel



Category: Deryni Chronicles - Katherine Kurtz
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zophiel/pseuds/Zophiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future fic. When a Haldane prince is shot down in the ruins of Mericia's capitol, his rescuers have some decisions to make, and a long road to go. But it may just be that he holds the key to their long-awaited freedom. Rated for language and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Ain't Ever Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first ever Deryni-fic. It's a future-fic, round about late 21st early 22nd Century. So, I've. . . extrapolated some things. I'm sure you'll likely recognize what these places are the alt. versions of. Several terms will be explained in the following chapters, as well as some of "recent" history and the social organization. Still, you got questions, I might have answers.
> 
> This is rated M for language and violence. I'll be keeping the more romantic stuff off-screen, as it were, in respect for M'Lady Kurtz precedent in this universe. That said, while most of whatever couples will be heterosexual couples, there is one homosexual pair. Again, nothing will be shown beyond maybe a few kisses, I am aware that readers of Katherine Kurtz may not be as accustomed as, well, certain brands of Anime-fangirl for example, to same-sex pairings. Or maybe I'm completely wrong with this. Anyway, I'm telling you up front so no complaining about it allowed.
> 
> This first chapter is a lot of into. That's the way of it, ne?

When her eyes were set to an expanded spectrum, the center of Derria Crater literally glowed in the dark, the radiation a soft, eerie reminder of how much things had changed since her parents were children. Once, her parents had visited museums and the zoo, and her grandparents —a lawyer, a nurse, an oilman and a dancer—had saved money to take their children to the opera, symphony, or ballet. Later, in the last years of the city, her parents had saved their money, and gone to the arenas for concerts and games— finally meeting one another at a hockey game three days before Christmas. All gone in one fireball that had lit her house in the dead of night from fifteen miles away.

In that night, Worthington, District of Derria, had been reduced to radioactive ash, and within a year, most of the Confederated States of Mericia had become the United Socialist Republic of Mericia. Now, only the Free State of Texas, The Western Republics, and the Free Port of New Dhassa (really a glorified warren of smugglers and pirates) remained, everything east of the Mississippi under the Ever Benevolent Rule of the People, which was to say, President for Life William Ayant. Not even the Midimeric Buffer States were free of the iron hand in the east.

Gone were the days of her grandparents, remembered in perfect detail by Michaela in her data files, downloaded from her parents when she was still small and had gained her first cybernetic implants.

Her eyes moved from the crater to her hands, watching as silver needles flexed in and out of her fingertips.

"Somethin's up, ain't it?" Solomon grumbled behind her. "Them firsties seem a bit off tonight. . ."

She glanced over, his newly shaved head reflecting the moonlight. "Yeah. I been scanning the frequencies but all's quiet."

"Hn." He lit a cigarette, hearing Fallon's chiding from below, and rolled his eyes good naturedly as their healer went into his predictable tirade against 'cancer sticks'. "They ain't ever quiet."

She nodded. "Yup. Best keep quiet ourselves, I reckon."

He grunted again, the shiral imbedded in his arm glowing briefly as he sent a playful mental poke to Fallon. "So . . . Jimmy's?"

She nodded, turning away from the crater to rejoin the rest of their pack standing by the crumbling street. Flickering neon lit the way to Jimmy's Karaoke Grill and Café, a nice homey dive known for good food, cheap drinks, and the only jukebox on the north end of the crater. It was also well situated near the territories of several large clans and a slew of smaller packs, all of whom generally got on well—which was good for business, especially of the off-the-books sort.

The place was mostly empty that night—it was late, and many packs had members with business in the early mornings. But a few were scattered around, an assortment of signs tattooed on shoulders, and more than a few "Evenin' Lions!" as they walked in.

The seven members of the Red Lion pack nodded wearily, snagging a couple tables as Michaela ambled up to the bar. "Hey, Jimmy," she sighed as she sat, dropping a few small coins on the counter. "Got any milk t'night?"

The one so addressed nodded and disappeared into the back to fetch her request. She turned to the man sitting next to her, brooding over a half-empty beer.

"Joaquin, been awhile. How's things?"

He grunted, the noise an expression of fatigue and worry.

"Oh that's right," she said softly. "Sonja and Ricardo's girl runs inna few weeks, don't she?"

He nodded, taking a pull and his warming brew. "Tuesday after nex'," he answered, grizzled brows twitching in contained worry.

"Red Lions'll be there," Michaela nodded her thanks to Jimmy as he brought her the requested bottle of milk. "You Harriers been good friends, least we can do."

There was a pause as each drank from their respective bottles. "You think she'll do okay?"

A twitch at the corners of his mouth. "She'll make it. Maybe even do as good as _you_ —she's got a few little tricks. . ."

She absently rubbed the numbered spider embroidered in the cloth on her neck, a sketch of the tattoo below, remembering when she had run the square only a few years before. "I do hope so. She got any to run with?"

"A few other girls that mornin'. One of the Blackhawk's got a girl, and a coupla twins from the Panthers. We been meetin' for the past year, making them a team. If they all get through, they'll all be Widows."

"Excellent." Michaela grinned. "Always good when the number of Black Widows is increased."

"They look up to you, you know. . ."

"Huhn?" she blinked.

"Really. People still talk about how you turned and went back to save the others, finally walking into City Hall all _Buffy_ -like, dripping in blood, followed by four others who got to be Widows only 'cause you went back, at great risk of yourself. Now every girl wishes to beat your numbers, no matter what their mummies and daddies want."

"So. . ." she paused, pondering her milk. "You're sayin' I'm a bad influence?"

"Heh, kinda." He grinned then in remembrance. "Still, besides tempting our sons and daughters into foolish heroism, it was a _good day_."

"Well then," she raised her bottle of milk, and her voice. "A toast to the kids who follow my example: _May their feet freely fly on red stones, all the way to the door of City Hall_!"

"Here, here!" replied the room, joined by a still grinning Joaquin.

"I shall convey your encouragement," he said when the sound had died down.

They quieted then, each lost in thoughts, Michaela also expanding her scanning, the odd radio silence still bugging her. Five minutes later—having expanded her search to a world-wide scan, she thought she might have found the answer.

Discreetly, she nudged Caine and Solomon to tune into the same frequency, the shiral in her arm glowing dimly as she alerted the others in the pack to get ready to leave.

 _I agree._ Caine sent back. _We gonna do somethin'?_

 _Think we shouldn't?_ she asked as she verbally made their excuses and they eased their way out the door.

_Naw, jest. . . ya' know, sometimes, things get more complicated than anyone expected. Savin' random folk is prime for all sorts of complicated . . ._

_Don't see how we could live with ourselves by doin' nothin' . . ._ she mused.

' _Cept maybe to actually, I dunno, live!_ Solomon interjected. _Not that I disagree,_ he continued. _But even if we pull this off—which is not guaranteed, then we've got a lot to figure out real fast. Firsties don't much like bein' messed with. If they shootin' someone out the air, they gonna want evidence. Which, if we do right, we gonna haveta fake . . . or somethin' . . ._

 _We're aware of the possible ends,_ Rai spoke up. _But honor demands we at least try. Perhaps we shall then have new allies._

 _I agree with Rai. . ._ Susanita's soft voice drifted in. _Having others in our debt has been useful before, and will be again. Favors for a rainy day are just as valuable as rations, when used right._

They paused at the near the outer edge of the crater, Michaela turning to the remaining members of the pack.

_Either of ya got objections, now's ya chance._

Fallon and Kenmaru glaced at each other, and shrugged.

 _I'm a healer,_ the former replied. _If I have forewarning, I'm really compelled to try to help._

 _To not try to lend assistance would be a sin of omission. I don't desire to have something so weighty on my conscience so close to finally being approved for ordination._ Sent Kenmaru. _Th' Bishop's gonna try to make me official, you know. I don't want to be depressed, or otherwise distracted, and have him decide I can't handle it._

Michaela blinked in surprise—this was the first they'd heard that the Bishop was trying to get their Kenmaru on the rolls of state recognized ministers.

"Riiiight. . ." Michaela sighed, tilting her head back to look at the cloudy night sky. "Solomon, call up Derrin, tell him we've got a lead on some incoming scrap. In return for the advance notice, we'd like first crack at . . ." she thought over the phrasing for a moment,". . . tell him, 'we'd like first crack at any living cargo, the rest is his.'"

Solomon nodded as they moved forward again. After only a few minutes, some men came out of a nearby alley. "Michaela! Lions! What's this ol' Sol' tells me about incoming?"

"Hey Derrin," Michaela waved him over to the crater edge so they could speak softly. "I have reason to believe that something will be through here in the next few minutes and is gonna get shot down in this area."

He gazed at her for a moment before responding. "And you want the people?"

"If they survive, yeah. Scrap is yours. Deal?"

He nodded. "Deal. You gonna let it get shot though?"

"Yes buut. . ." she cocked her head as she further fleshed out her plan, shiral flickering as she gave instructions to her pack. "I'm gonna have Caine and Rai go over and see if they can do something about the aim. I want the Firsties to think their job done, savvy?"

Derrin nodded again. "You retrievin' what you want?"

"Me, Solomon and Ken. I'd appreciate if your boys handle any fire an' help with any heavy liftin'—I'm sure you wouldn't want us to further damage any goods. Susanita and Fallon will stand by at the tunnels. Once we're clear, it's all yours, no debts."

"Righto, then. Time?"

"Any minute."

It was more like ten minutes, but it was enough for Caine and Rai to find the firstie hidden just inside the edge of the crater, Rai blurring the man's mind while Caine hacked the aiming systems and adjusted the aim _just so_. As they did so, the others had made their way down the inner wall of the crater, picking their way among over a decade's worth of debris, dark clothing fading into the jagged shadows around them. No sooner had they settled to wait than the rhythmic thud of rotating blades filled the basin, echoing off the surrounding buildings.

"A VTOL? Bigger than I thought." Solomon murmured.

Dear Michael," Michaela's prayer was a whisper, lost quickly to the breeze. "Any assistance would be appreciated. "

The craft came over the edge of the crater, tilting as though to slowly turn, when the light of an RPG flashed up, blowing off the tail. Michaela grimaced as the machine swung in the air, falling unsteadily to the ground below, and finally hitting bottom with a muffled crash and a convincing amount of fire.

"I hope your cargo lived through that." Derrin commented.

"Me too," Michaela half-moaned. "Come on guys. Let's go see if the debris was cushion enough."

Forward they ran, knowing that the firstie above would not be able to see them behind the wreckage, encouraged as the initial blaze quickly died down and the interior could be seen through the shattered windows.

"Right in there!" Michaela pointed to a break in the main cabin where they might get through as Derrin and his pack started to extinguish the rest of the flames. Carefully they ducked in, avoiding jagged tears in the frame. They immediately knew that the pilot was dead, the crash having toasted him rather thoroughly. It was the passengers they were most interested in, though.

 _Looks like there are three,_ she sent to her companions. _I'm guessing that being impaled like that sorta inhibits life. . . those younger two might be alive though . . ._

The two men began moving forward as Derrin's pack started removing the hull. _Yep,_ Solomon sent, _Mine's got a pulse._

 _Mine, too._ The extrication was delicate, but necessarily fast. It was only a matter of time before the firsties came to inspect their handiwork. Looking around as they began to pull out, Michaela noticed that the older man had clenched something in his hand as he died, and she pried in open to find a small bag with what felt like a ring inside, the golden lion of Gwynedd printed on the side. And from this angle, she could recognize what was left of his face, and the ring on his finger. She froze, mind awhirl as the implications stormed in.

_Dammit. I'm gonna have to take these, your Grace. I promise to deliver them safely._

Then she ducked out, back to the crater edge where Solomon and Ken were waiting, watching as Fallon set to work with Susanita's help, healing what he could, getting the two young men stable enough to transport back to the den.

"Who are these men?" Kenmaru asked softly.

"Not now, Ken." Michaela replied, lost in thought.

"Alpha—"

"Not 'til we're back in the den!" she growled. "Not safe to say a thing until then." She nodded toward Fallon as he straightened from his work, wiping sweat from his brow.

"They'll each need more, but they're good to go for now."

"Caine, Solomon, pick 'em up. We'll go through the tunnels back to the den."

"All the way?" Susanita cringed at the thought of going the whole way through the dirty, smelly tunnels that ran beneath what was left of the city.

"All the way. No one sees our cargo. Got it?" Reluctant nods met her directive.

"Derrin?" Rai asked as they set off. "And the Rats?

"We just got him enough scrap to last a month. He'll keep his mouth shut. And King Rat owes me so much they'll swear they never saw us even if we literally ran over them. Enough jabber, now. Vocal silence 'til we get safe."

The trip through the tunnels was just as dirty and smelly as Susanita had feared, and had Fallon fretting mentally about bad air and infections the whole time. But that was a healer's job, so no one really minded. As it was, they managed to make it through the tunnels and up to their loft den without encountering anyone, much less any of the tunnel Rats.

Susanita opened the door, Caine and Solomon—and their respective burdens—right behind, the rest filing in with Michaela at the rear.

She had turned to shut the door when the door across the hall opened.  
"Michaela, you back?" The weasel faced man asked with matching weasel-voice.

"No, 'Tachi, I'm a ghost. My body's in several pieces around the city." She deadpanned. "Whaddaya think?"

He rolled his eyes. "Whatevah. Hey, you hear about dem Gwynny royals?"

She blinked, slowly stepping into the hall, shutting the door behind her. "What about them, 'Tach? I've heard nothing . . ."

"Oh, Mickey, tap de airwaves chica! Dey been broadcastin' it for de past fifteen minutes. Dere was a _coup de—coup de--- coup de somethin'_ , de entire Parliament was 'rrested an' de royal family was all killed. Heh, dey even got de prince who was on a visit over here. Shot him out de sky over at de Crater."

She took a deep breath as she re-accessed the waves, catching up on what had been released while they'd been in the tunnels. She started to feel sick, but got a hold of herself before her face showed anything. "That musta been the explosion we saw over by Jimmy's. We'd just left a bit before, were just strollin', but cut out real fast after that. Too bad, huh?"

"Yeah, too bad." 'Tachi agreed. "Dey was nice folk, I heard. Well, I'll letcha git ya beauty sleep. Nobody likes a tetchy Widow inna mornin'."

"Thanks, 'Tachi." She rolled her eyes and entered their den, locking all seven locks behind her. Fallon was again bent over the two men as Susanita gently washed off the smudges and dirt from the tunnels. The waited in silence as the two worked, knowing he'd ask if he needed help. Presently he sat back with a gusty sigh, gratefully accepting the small glass of water Susanita offered.

"Alright?" Solomon inquired.

"Yeah. Just some broken bones I wanted to heal more thoroughly, and the contusions, lacerations and a few minor burns that I didn't need to heal immediately at the site. Both are Deryni with good shields, this one—" he motioned to the redhead on his left. "Is a healer. Didn't try to inquire further, though. Figured we can ask when they wake."

"Or," Caine scowled. "We can ask our Alpha what she knows. You know something, don't you."

She nodded. "Yeah, I do. Wish I didn't, though. Waves are reporting that the entire Royal Family of Gwynedd was assassinated earlier today. Including the visiting prince whose helicopter was shot down over Derria Crater."

"You mean—" Kenmaru blurted. " _Them_?"

She sighed. "That there," she pointed to the brunet by Fallon. "I think is Edward McArdrie, now Duke of Claiborne since his da' _was_ killed in that crash. His companion is Prince—well, now King, I guess—Javan Haldane the Third.."

The den was silent as the pack worked through the implications of what they'd done.

Solomon finally found the words to sum up the situation, though.

"Well, _shit_."


	2. Lions of Various Sorts

Consciousness came about slowly. First, he became aware of the hardness of the surface he was laying on—it wasn't his bed, whatever it was. Perhaps he and Jay had had too many drinks and passed out somewhere? Wouldn't have been the first time.

Next came scent—the smells all together foreign, warm-spicy, a little sweet, a distant acridity of burning metal. Urban areas smelled like this, like people and buildings and metal rubbing metal. The smell brought phantom memories of screeching train wheels and working on his bike in the car pool.

As he swam closer to waking, memories started to trickle in with the scents. The VTOL, yes, and then something happened, _there was a fire!_ His surge of adrenaline was expertly disabled by a polite, if unknown mind. Just the short, expert switch of a lever in his brain, and the panic was forestalled, the stranger then politely retreating to the other side of his shields. A healer, then, like himself.

He opened his eyes, meeting the concerned gaze of the man leaning over his head. Everything beyond was blurry—there must have been eye damage, but things would sharpen as he awoke more.

_Sorry about that. Didn't want you to panic and then undo all the work I've done._

It was a standard practice that most healers learned when taught by a modern military—if your patient was wounded in battle, they'd likely wake up disoriented, which could then cause them to harm themselves. Controlling another's panic responses was one of the first things he'd learned after he'd graduated boot camp. He took a deep breath, nodding with careful understanding.

_Status?_

The man lifted his hand in a see-saw motion. _I healed the contusions and lacerations, and the burns. Mostly second and third degree. You've been out for about 18 hours, assuming you were awake right before the crash._ Raw data filtered through under the words, images and medical terms that gave him the understanding that he'd been quite messed up. _There was no sign of concussion, but I've only been monitoring brain function loosely. Enough to fix the most obvious, keep you alive. Alpha said to keep myself out of your brain as much as possible. Do you consent to my assistance?_

There was an odd, ironic twist to that last thought. He'd examine it later—full status update came first. _Yes._ That he'd asked was a good sign. With his blurry vision and spotty memories, he'd accept the help- for now. _The others?_

Hesitation. _Only one other was alive when we got to you. I've done the basics but for . . . well, rather obvious reasons, I thought it best to let you do any deep work that might need doing._

He felt the other healer ready to blunt his emotions again, as he struggled to sit up. _You are?_

The man nodded as limp pillows were stuffed behind his back. _Fallon, Pack Healer for the Lions, Clan of the Silver Spring. And you are Edward McArdrie, son of Geoffrey, late Duke of Claibourne._

Edward felt a distant, blunted clenching of his heart, glad that things were muffled for the moment. He looked at Fallon, noting the sparkling, flickering jewel set into his upper left arm, the eye of a golden lion tattoo on a deep red oval. Footsteps from beyond his still somewhat blurry vision gained his attention. A woman with strange, spidery tattoos on her upper chest and a lion on her arm knelt down.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," she murmured lowly, holding out a small, red bag. Shakily, Edward accepted it. Inside was his father's seal and, beside it. . .

"Javan?" he asked, eyes locked on the glittering rubies before him.

A small gesture hand him turning to see his best friend laying peacefully beside him. He reached out, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turned back, the woman's green eyes wide with caution.

"It was not just your craft that went down last night. . . " she stopped, eyes wary and still. "You need to know that we have received word that most of the Gwyneddi Parliament was arrested last night. . ."

He faintly felt Fallon's control tighten. "And?"

"And we have seen raw video. . ." she looked very unsure of what she was about to say next, but Fallon nodded to her, their arm-jewels flickering quickly.

She sighed, looking down to the ground before meeting his eyes again. "And the entirely of the Royal Family was killed in four different attacks across the country. Only he remains."

Edward was grateful for Fallon's blunting of his emotions. It allowed him to gain and keep focus. He lifted the rings. "Where did you get these?"

She sat back on her heels, maintaining eye-contact. "Your father was dead when we reached him. He was holding that little bag with the red ring. We were not able to recover the body in time, but I was able to get the ring on his finger. I don't know why he had the other."

He knew his face showed his skepticism.

"Read it from me, if you doubt."

"Alpha!" Fallon whispered. "No man may touch your mind who isn't Pack!"

It was then that it really hit Fallon what he was dealing with. He'd heard rumors, of course, of what had happened when Mericia fell, of the remains of that once-proud nation that refused to accept their new rulers, who ran the streets of the cities in half-feral packs.

He and Javan were in a Den. From where he reclined, he could see light streaming in the windows on one wall, high ceilings with a loft on the far wall. The floor was cement, covered in tattered rugs and cushions. Walls of painted cinder block enclosed the rest, the dreary gray shade broken by various papers and other things hung for display. A few shoji screens sectioned off parts of the room, and distant murmurs told him there was more to this pack than the Alpha and the Healer.

He sighed, once again glad for the emotional blunting. "I was reading you as you spoke. It's an odd tale, is all . . . why did you rescue us?"

"Didn't know it was you, at first." She shifted until she was sitting on the concrete, legs stretched out before here. "Firsties had been quiet all night, so I went prying into things I legally wasn't allowed to pry into. Found they were planning on dropping a plane out the sky. Figured anyone they wanted dead we wanted alive. So we made sure the hit wasn't direct, and saved what else we could."

His vision still improving, Edward now noticed the metal running through and under most of her left flank, the dancing lights under some parts of her skin. Only the one on the shoulder was a jewel, and he could now see that it was a shiral, flickering randomly in her shadow.

He turned to Fallon. "Some water and food, and I should be ready to see to His . . . Highness . . ."

* * *

Javan sat wearily on a fraying cushion, numbly holding a mug of instant coffee. It was rotten coffee, watery and bitter, but it was warm and it kept his hands busy. To be honest, he'd had worse, but he'd thought his days of camp camel-piss were over. Apparently not.

Eddy had broken the news to him when he woke, and his stuttered attempts at denial were met with video feeds hacked out of the web, bloody, gruesome, and uncompromising in their horrible, personal detail. They were real, there was no doubt, because he'd seen the locket he'd given his little cousin Rafaela on her tenth birthday, the tattoo on his older sister Jenny's bum that even Mum and Da hadn't known about. She'd gotten it when at Corwyn University on a drunken bet and had sworn him to silence when he'd inquired why she was having trouble sitting. And he'd seen the scar little Al had gotten when trying to free a fox from bear trap- he'd been all of six years old at the time.

And then a terrible, horrible thought hit him so forcefully that he couldn't muffle the chuckles before they erupted.

"He okay?" The question from the huge, burly bald man named Solomon, his dark eyes radiating caution and concern, though Javan was sure those feelings were not on his behalf.

Eddy's face came into view. "Jay?"

He gave a shrug, his face twisted in gallows humor. "I just realize I was following a long, well-treasured family tradition of being the Last Haldane." He might have laughed, then. Or maybe sobbed. He couldn't really tell.

"That's right. . ." The Alpha, Michaela, stepped into his vision and lowered herself to a cushion facing him. "Yeah, it's started with Aidan, back in . . . what was it . . . eight eighty-two AD? That was the one St. Camber hauled ol' King Cinhil back from. Then, in sixteen forty nine, it was Urien the Forth, who 'scaped the plague 'cause he was out discovering Nippon at the time. And then, of course, the failed Parliamentary Revolution of the seventeen seventies, when the Haldanes were narrowed down to an old guy, a baby, and a queen who took up a rifle and brought the revolution to a swift, bloody end. Lost yourselves a few colonies before it was sorted out, though."

She quirked a smile. "Daddy named me after her. Said all the daughters of Michael were steel-spined amazons."

Javan shifted the mug in his hands. "You seem to know quite a bit for a, well, not-Gwyneddian . . ."

"Grandpa Dylan, who founded this pack, was a Doctor of Gwyneddi history before the Fall of the Republic. The knowledge of every pack member is passed down through the generations through our shiral-amber interfaces. Mosta what he knew, we know. He designed our seal-" she turned, pointing to the crimson and gold tattoo her shoulder "-to look like one of the traditional Royal Regalia thingys that the Haldanes tend to wear to important functions."

He leaned forward. "Yes, the Crimson Lion. Why that?"

She shrugged. "That's one thing he didn't pass on. I know he was acquainted with some historians and archivists over in Rhemuth, one of them your late Great- Aunt Harriet. All he would ever tell anyone, after the Fall, was that it was something only those who really knew the Gwyneddi roots of Merician culture would get."

"Ah, yes." Javan felt another chuckle fighting to the surface. "Defiance and rebellion, even when caged. The unending fight for freedom, even when beaten into the dust."

Grins spread through the pack. "Really?" Rai asked. " _Sugoi yo!_ We all kinda figured Old Man Dylan was bein' hisself, trying to make conspiracy theories out of nothin' . . ."

"How did it get that meaning?" it was soft-voiced Susanita, inky serpents—taipans, perhaps?- winding up her neck under her skin. He thought these women had rather morbid tastes in ink. He drew his attention back to her question, grateful for the distraction from his grief.

"Queen Michaela gave the Lion to Rhys the First on the occasion of Prince Owain's birth. Much later, it was learned that at the time, the royal family had been under complete control of the Council. Family stories say she gave it to him as a token of their resistance, a reminder of all they had to fight for- the same stories say that King Javan had been killed by this council, and Rhys drugged for years into compliance after. In time, it became part of the Coronation Rites. I don't know where it is, now. . ."

A heavy silence fell, then.

"Well, not to interrupt the jollity-" the healer, Fallon, wandered over, a human skull clutched in his hand, Caine behind him, likewise bearing a skull. "But we've finished the decoys." He hefted his skull.

"And I thought the tattoos on the ladies were morbid. . ." Javan breathed.

Caine grinned, folding himself down next to Ed. "Here, tell me who's brain box this is."

Ed gingerly took the bones, extending his senses. He pulled back with a start. "It's Jay's! But-?"

The pack nano-specialist took the skull back. "Actually, it's my cousin Shay's. The one Fallon has is Michaela's little brother but, should anyone scan it with mind or machine, it'll register as you. Humans and Deryni can do fascinating things when working together."

Ed leaned forward. "How? I've studied with the best healers in the Eleven Kindoms and beyond, and I've never heard of anything that could do this . . ."

"We mighta used your DNA. . ." Fallon had the grace to look at least a little ashamed. "We certainly had plenty to work with, the way you two were bleedin' when we found ya. As for the rest. . . healers can't do it. Humans can't do it. But, a healer working with the right humans . . . we can fake quite a bit."

Javan shrugged. "Alright, then why dig up dead relatives and replicate our genetic patterns in their skulls?"

The pack looked at him as though surprised he'd have to ask. "Look, I've just been through some major physical trauma, and I'm dealing with major psychological upheaval at the moment, so let's just assume my brain has been shocked into periodic over-load. Why the bones?"

"Because you are dead," it was the priest, this time. Or, well, almost-priest. Priest-in-a-few-days. "Or rather, you are supposed to be. The Firsties have started to ask Derrin's Boys for the remains that should have been with the crash. If they don't get something, a seed of suspicion will be planted, which is something none of us can afford. We let these be found, then there's no doubt you're dead, which means no one will get the idea to look for you."

"Ah." Javan resettled the blanked around his shoulders. "And after the 'Firsties' are satisfied, what then? If we're dead . . . what do we do from there?"

Shirals flickered, as the pack turned as one to their Alpha. The light show extended a few moments, before Rai stood, grabbing Caine's hand before dragging him out the one door in the loft. Solomon and Susanita followed, going down the hall in a different direction. leaving just Michaela, Kenmaru, and Fallon with them.

"What happens next," the Alpha started. "Is up to you. You can stay in Mericia, try to find a new life here, or you can try to find your way back to Gwynedd, maybe free your nation from the Caliphate." She shrugged.

Ed looked at Jay. If they were supposed to be dead, getting outside the Den would be problematic, much less getting home.

Javan sat up straighter, assuming what Ed sometimes teasingly called his "Prince Face".

"You saved us from death," He spoke. "And we are indebted to you for that. But to leave this place for any destination is impossible for us. There is no way we could blend in. Were we to stay, become Merician, or leave to Gwynedd, we wouldn't make it a mile before being discovered. Moreover, our discovery could lead to difficulties for yourself and your pack."

Michaela idly let her finger trace swirling patterns on the floor. "So it would. What do you suggest we do, now that we have you in our care?" Her eyes met his in a challenge, clearly focused on some end.

Javan thought furiously. They were clearly in negotiations, but he had little to bargain with, much less of an idea of what he needed from them, but the look in her eye suggested she knew exactly where this was headed. But wouldn't tell him. So, something he had to figure out on his own. He could demand she get to the point, but he didn't think it would work. Best to puzzle it out as she clearly wished him to do.

"I have no way of paying you for any assistance-"

She held up a hand, needle-like claws glinting in the fading sunlight. "Among the packs and clans, we have made a currency of favors. If we do a thing for you, then you give us a token which, in the future, we can cash in for a return favor. The greater the favor, the greater the number of tokens."

Javan chewed on that a moment, setting his mug down on the floor. "So, I already owe you a debt for our lives. If I were to ask the assistance of you and your pack in, say, helping us return to Rhemuth, then the favor we would owe in return would be of like greatness?"

She nodded, a pleased spark in her eyes. "That is exactly how it would work."

He shifted on the cushion. "So tell me about the Fall of the Republic, and the packs. How do things work, these days?"


End file.
